Something Periwinkle
by cloudwalk
Summary: It's the 1st Anniversary of the War, and Draco reflects on the Yule Ball. Dra/ronmione oneshot.


**disclaimer: everything here i owe to queen rowling.**

**for sofia's fanfiction contest #005, .com/post/7053106941/fanfiction-contest-005.**

2nd May, 1999.

They were celebrating the 1st anniversary of Harry's defeat of Lord Voldemort. Hogwarts had long since been restored to its former glory, and the teachers, shepherded by Minerva McGonagall, had organized a grand party in the Great Hall for all the students and alumni.

The air was thick with festivity. Magical lights twinkled along the corridors, with little fairies that whispered in your ear if you let them; the staircase banisters had been festooned with tinsel in the house colours.

Draco could not help but tug at the offending fluff. Bits of red and gold came off into his hand, and he scowled, clenching his fists as he strode along. Festivities annoyed him and this one more than any other. He did not see any need for attending something so reminiscent of the Yule Ball –they were nineteen, who _needed _balls?- and would have gladly stayed at the Manor, had his father not insisted that him attending would boost the family's honour in everyone's eyes.

His father. Draco scoffed. He had no idea why he still followed Lucius's every word, still bowed down to his every wish. He hated it. It had deprived him of everything he had ever wanted, and even now, when it was too late, he wished he could take it all back. "A very Gryffindor sentiment," he thought to himself, and smirked at the thought.

It repulsed and attracted him, the niggling thought that there was another reason why he had let the house-elf iron out his best dress robes and lay out his shiniest dragon leather shoes for him tonight. He had combed his hair with extra precision and folded his cuffs just so. Draco was not a man who dressed sloppily, but even then he knew when he took more effort than usual, and tonight was such a night.

He had a feeling he knew why, and he didn't know if he liked it or not.

Draco also knew, with a sinking feeling in his heart, that it had something to do with the colour periwinkle. Something to do specifically, in fact, with a periwinkle _dress_. Draco didn't care very much for women's clothes –he remembered all those dreadful times when Pansy had asked him if this was alright, or if that made her butt look fat- but he knew that dress had been something special. It had been floaty and ethereal, like something out of a dream.

Its wearer had been quite something, too.

He knew it was odd to still remember all these things so many years after it had happened, especially given what had happened in between. But he remembered. And somehow there was something about that memory that was so clear in his mind that when he lay in bed at night and couldn't sleep, he just had to close his eyes and he was _there_.

He could smell her, hear her, before he saw her.

Pausing now as he did in the Entrance Hall, he had a good view of the Great Hall without anyone being able to see him. One of the younger teachers had commissioned an up-and-coming wizard rock band to come in and play for the night, and Draco observed as several of his ex-classmates embarrassed themselves trying to put on moves that would only have looked right amongst first years.

But there she was. Draco closed his eyes and he could hear her tinkling laugh. She looked beautiful, and he knew she knew it. Without opening his eyes he could see her smile, the action crinkling up her face in dimples and making her eyes twinkle. He could feel her toss her hair back and sway her hips gracefully. She was the lone swan in the room, and he wasn't there to tell her how beautiful she was.

But she didn't need him. Try as he might Draco could not ignore the fact that Ron Weasley, in dress robes of a virulent purple that looked a few sizes too big for him, was right next to her, a goofy grin of adoration hardly ever leaving his freckled face. Draco scowled again. If it wasn't enough that he had a horrible sense of dress, Weasley had no idea how to charm a girl.

He breathed in deeply and smelt her perfume in the air. It was an invigorating smell, something like freshly mown grass mixed with a hint of flowers. It made him smile. He remembered it.

The first time he had smelt it was at the Yule Ball. He had come round the corner and bumped straight into her on the stairs. She was sitting down, her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking with what even he recognized as the most heartrending sobs he had ever heard. "Krum not the Prince Charming you expected, then?" he remembered saying, seeing as very well couldn't comment on her beaver molars, or her extremely over stuffed school bag, or her dirty bushy hair. (_Seeing as how he couldn't comment on how absolutely beautiful she looked that night._)

"Go back to your snake-hole, Malfoy, I don't need you right now," she said into her hands. It was probably the meanest thing she'd ever said to him and it took him aback for a minute. He took a step as if to climb the stairs, but something about the way she looked then caught his breath.

She looked so vulnerable, so fragile. He had the strangest urge to protect her just then, to hold her against disappointed hopes and broken hearts, ugly Quidditch champions and untactful redheads. He had the strangest urge to tell her something just then, something he knew would destroy everything his father had worked hard for all those years, and change his life forever.

"You look beautiful tonight, Granger."

She looked up, but he had already gone, face burning with the thought of what he had just said. What was he _thinking_? Malfoys didn't go around complimenting Mudbloods. It didn't matter that his heart sped up every time he saw her around or the fact that he thought the way her eyes sparkled when she answered a question was strangely attractive.

It didn't matter that she didn't need him anymore.

Hermione Granger wasn't vulnerable. She was making great progress at the Ministry; she had appeared on the cover of _Witch Weekly _more often than Pansy, Astoria and Daphne put all together; she had gone ridiculously far with that stupidly successful elf campaign thing. And she had Weasley.

How Weasel-bee compared to him, he had no idea, but he had to admit as the song slowed down and the redhead took Hermione in his arms that there was a definite spark between them. She laid her head against his shoulder and he kissed her hair, closing his eyes. Whatever the clueless blood traitor was doing, it was working. They remained there for a split moment, but to Draco it changed everything.

He turned, and left.

**rather different from my usual style. don't think i'm really used to writing after so long a hiatus. hope you like it anyway!**


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